


The Contract

by twistedthicket1



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Demisexual Sherlock, Demons, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mythology - Freeform, Smut, fae, halloween fic, incubus sherlock, medieval setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 03:40:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5114558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedthicket1/pseuds/twistedthicket1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the eve of the day in which the divide between the spirit world and the Earth becomes thinnest, Captain John Watson is intent on making sure that no Demons will make it past the gate. The village of Baker is heavily fortified, a veritable fortress against the evils that are scheduled to arrive: Nightmarish monsters come to life with only the intent of tormenting innocent life. John hates all the Demons that feed off of his people. </p><p>On the other side in the spirit world, Sherlock is an Incubus that faces a serious problem: He does not feel sexual attraction.  Rather, he finds the entire process of sex tedious, mortals annoying, his bodily needs at once vaguely distressing and inconvenient. Faced with a need to eat after denying himself for nearly a year, Sherlock does not expect himself to take interest in another Demon's prey, of all things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Contract

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a bit of a halloween treat for my readers. I saw this original prompt and thought that it was too good an idea to let go:  
> "Set in a fantasy medieval time where dragons, demons, and fay alike exist. Sherlock is an incubus, but he hates it. He loathes his biology because while people are attracted to him he feels nothing for them. That is until he begins to observe John Watson, the ambitious captain of the guard. One night Sherlock sneaks his way into the guard’s chambers. He stalks closer to the bedding where John appears to be sleeping. ‘Just a touch’ he tells himself reaching out a hand. Before he can feel John’s skin beneath his palm the man lunges out of bed, grappling the demon to the ground. The two men tussle until they reach a stalemate. Even though they seem to be on equal footing Sherlock decides to play dirty. He begins to tease the man with sinful words, shifting his body beneath the captain’s. Sherlock coaxes him into sexual intercourse. A seduction to which John yields to because John Watson is attracted to danger, and what is more dangerous than something that can kill you with your own desire?  
> Only things again don’t quite go as planned. Sherlock is unable to control his body’s reaction to John’s sexual prowess, and finds himself in awe as the captain brings him to climax. Later he comes to discover, through a conversation with his elder brother Mycroft, a higher level demon, that he had in fact created a contract with John, and was now bound to the human as his demonic servant. (I see blasphemous church sex in the future for this)"
> 
> The prompt was originally by senorakitty, but I wound up changing some of the details a bit as I went along, so it might not fulfill their exact idea. ^_^ Either way, I hope you all enjoy, and I hope all of you have a happy halloween~
> 
> Thank you to my wonderful beta "themindisacity" for looking over my work and pushing through even when I gave them an atrocious crunch-time to deadline!

 

 

_“All my life, I've understood the nature of where I come from, but I never thought it might be wicked until now.” ~ Brenna Yovanoff, The Space Between_

 

 

The night burned purple as the sun set, darkness encircling the forest ahead and turning trees into fingers reaching for the sky with bony limbs. John sat atop his perch on the wall, a huddled ball of furs against the autumn chill that turned his breath to smoke and his nose pink and running. The cold tried to seep into everything, from his hands wrapped about his bow to the tips of his ears. Years of training was all that kept him awake against that cold that seemed to so badly wish to tuck him in, making his muscles weary and aching and his eyes red-rimmed and watering.

 

God, he had been here since morning and there was still no end in sight to his shift. Not that there could be, given the time of the year. Even now all hands were on deck, men and women alike throwing thick cords of rope over the posts of the gates, heaving as one and pulling the massive wooden blockade shut for the evening, caging the village against the threats that would soon come. John watched them from above on the wall, people he had known all his life appearing like tiny ants marching in tandem. The town of Baker was well protected, he thought, fortified by the stake-like wooden walls, each spike armed with an archer who knew their weapon well. His people were lucky, all things considered. That still did not make the expectations of tonight any less dreadful or menacing.

 

As if picking up on his thoughts a warm hand clapped John suddenly on the shoulder, a familiar voice rousing him from his chilled meditation. Greg’s hair glinted silver in the fading sunlight, and his dark eyes were amicable as he cheerfully grinned. For a second in command, Lestrade had a warm personality under his world-weary exterior. It meshed well with John’s, and as such was what made them such a fierce duo. Captain and co, they had together managed to bring Baker up from a struggling shell of collected huts to a place with budding life and commerce. All by proposing the building of a single wall. That had been a few years ago and both men, though older, were still seriously prepared to protect their town.

 

“The Fae just contacted us.  They say we have about a half hour before our side of the world is hit with it. Likely to come out of the Ghost Woods.”

 

“And what will they want for that tidbit of information?” John responded dryly, peering out into the dark, searching already for the telltale glow of inhuman eyes. Greg’s answering sigh was one of long-sought patience, born from having had this conversation more than once with his friend. He reached into his cloak, producing tobacco and a beaten old pipe. He spoke as he methodically went about readying his smoke, voice quiet but comforting in the dark.

 

“They’ll come for a share of our summer grain come the turn of the season. A tenth, not much. No one likes the **_Darklings_** and we need to work together if we all want to survive.”

 

“Trusting Fae feels like playing with fire,” John retorted quietly, gazing out into the darkness. The grip on his weapon tightened, wood creaking under his hands. “It wasn’t too long ago they were _part_ of the **_Darklings,_** the vampyres and Demons and Incubi.”

 

“Four hundred years ago.” Greg reminded, eyebrows raising slightly as he shrugged. “Long before either of us were born.”

 

“A blink of an eye for them,” John merely countered, refusing to say anything more on the topic.

 

Greg, seeming to sense his friend’s mood mercifully let it drop, smoking grey rings even as the last of the sun sunk below the horizon. With it, darkness truly settled over the land, and John saw the lights of his town snuff out one by one, people boarding up their windows and locking their doors tightly. Not a soul would leave their homes, not tonight. Not on Hallows’ Eve, when the realm between the Earth and the strange land of the Others wore thin, permitting its creatures to cross over. John sat tensed and poised, even as Greg left to take his own position. This year, this year no one would be taken.

 

No one would have to die.

 

This year, John was making sure of it.

 

****

 

Mycroft entered his brother’s realm on the eve of their hunting night, the tap of his faithful parasol warning the younger Incubus of his impending arrival long before his brother actually took corporeal form. Sherlock had laid himself out on the single piece of furniture that inhabited the room that was otherwise filled with clutter; a pale figure that was both ethereal and dead-looking when absolutely still. He would look like a corpse to any human eye, but Mycroft’s sharper vision could see the barest rise of his brother’s chest, the minute shivering of the massive wings that stretched out lazily from Sherlock’s back like twin sails enshrouding him. A figure made of darkest shadow and alabaster skin, the Incubus bothered to open only one eye, lazily reaching out one hand to gesture at his brother in a shooing motion.

 

“ _Blud._ To what do I owe this untimely visit? You don’t often visit the bone room.” True to the room’s title, a collection of skeletal creatures shivered in the corners of the chamber like timid pets, save for the fact that they were not of the living and indeed quite dead. Their eyes were baleful empty sockets, their forms nothing even close to anatomically correct. Pieces, stitched together by hands that cared not for mortal definitions of “physically possible” and instead aimed for both fantastic and strange.  To Mycroft they were the epitome of his brother’s frivolity, as he treated them less like the messengers of the dead they were meant to be and more like house pets. Then again, the elder Holmes had never much liked the empty look the creatures gave him, or the skittering way they scuttled around the polished end of his parasol.

 

“You make them nervous.” Sherlock answered the question that his brother had never really asked, sitting up and bracing his elbows against his knees. Mycroft sighed through his teeth even as a creature, bones clattering together with a hollow clacking jumped up into Sherlock’s lap, coming to rest in the dip of his waist. It scratched behind one nonexistent ear much like a cat would, the dry sound of it grating to the sensitive ears that provided it audience. Sherlock’s long fingers absently reached to stroke the creature’s serpentine spine.

 

“You should be getting ready for tonight. I’ve spoken to your Darklings and poor Molly is struggling to even tell them what your plan of action is to be tonight.”

 

“That would be because I do not _have_ a plan of action, _obviously,”_ came the bland retort, cool as you please. Sherlock stood then, shoving the skeleton creature off of his lap with a brush of his hands before rising to his full height. His wings stretched outwards and behind him, semi-transparent and smoky shades of red and black, matching the midnight tone of the sable cloak that only just covered his modesty. Now he fingered it absently, listening to Mycroft’s patronising tone with flared nostrils and a sigh of impatience on his lips.

 

“Every year we do this and every year we have the same old tired argument, _Sherlock._ You need to feed; without a life source you shall wither away and become little more than a shade. As it is you are far too thin, and considering that it’s _me_ who gets the short end of Mummy’s rage when you come home looking less than healthy, I’d appreciate it _immensely_ if you could put some effort towards your survival.”

 

Through his small speech Mycroft’s voice had gradually risen, reaching a warning that was hard to miss. Sherlock scowled under its weight, resisting the urge to sulk like a demon much younger than his respectable one thousand years of age. _Childish,_ Mycroft thought with a scowl, and his hand tightened over the handle of his parasol even as a tight sigh escaped him.

 

Sherlock’s churlish response was dripping with distaste for his immediate future.  “I’m not a _child._ I can take care of my own needs, _thank you._ I don’t need your coddling, and you can tell our mother that to her face next time she asks you.”

 

Sherlock suggested this with a completely smooth expression, as if telling the Queen of Hell herself to all but _piss off_ was an easy task. Mycroft’s lips thinned into a line of annoyance, fed up with his sibling’s tenacity. He shrugged, masking his frustration with a deceptively bland tone. He made as if to turn away, leaving a last parting shot over his shoulder that left Sherlock’s hands tightening by his sides.

 

“As you wish then, brother mine. Do not however come crying to me when your body fails you. Your brain may run on more scintillating stimuli than _sex,_ but you cannot change your nature. We are Incubi, Sherlock, not immortal. You sleep with a human, you feed from them, you steal their life force. At the end of the day, even you cannot deny your physical form its most basic of needs forever.”

 

****

 

 

For Sherlock, the word held a number of unpleasant associations in his mind - the largest issue glowing in his mind like the fading echo of fireworks. Since the day he had come into this realm shrieking and snarling like any normal demon, he had been expected to grow up to embrace his calling, his nature. By one hundred years he had fully grown into both his horns and his tail, and yet still Sherlock’s libido lagged terribly. That wasn’t to say he wasn’t seductive, no. In his teachings he had been amongst the top of his class, if a class counted as a gaggle of demon children learning of their place in the universe. Sherlock knew how to move his body, how to draw the eye towards the softer parts of his form and away from the dead glint in his eye or the unnatural stillness of his silhouette.

 

The issue had always lain in Sherlock’s personality, a key trait that had never quite presented, and a damning one for a Incubus not to have. Sherlock for all intents and purposes, simply wasn’t _interested_ in sex. It wasn’t for lack of trying. Initiation for young Incubi was field work in its basest form, those who thrived winning over their first human in the biblical sense before they even got a chance to truly look at Earth and what it had to offer. Sherlock had tried to apply his knowledge practically - and succeeded to a certain extent - but he could never lose himself to the lust that he saw his other classmates indulge in, the flavour of the souls he’d managed to capture tasting like little more than sand on his tongue. All that effort for a rather bland, loathsome result: it was truly no wonder that by the time he was an adult Sherlock was pegged as an outlier amongst his peers.

 

Worse, Sherlock couldn’t even just refuse his transport; the curse of being an Incubi by nature meant that he _ate_ the life force he gained from engaging with humanity. So yet again he found his hunger stir on the eve of when the walls between what mortals called Earth and his realm, “Hell,” was at its weakest. The hunger was a pull between his ribs, dragging him inexorably forward, up from his somewhat depressive musings. It sunk deep in his bones, filled his blood until it bubbled in the form of adrenaline, made colours sharper to his eyes and the taste of his own desperation clearer on his tongue. Cursing, Sherlock pressed a hand to his eyelids even as he called out for Molly. It was going to be an eternally, _banally_ long night.

 

****

 

The wind howled like a banshee, and with it came the first shrieking warning that jolted John’s men from their somewhat relaxed poses. Their breath united came out in nervous clouds, eyes straining in the dark for sight of what everyone knew would be the first wave of attack. John, bow ready, hardly dared to breathe at all, the command to attack brushing just behind his lips, on the tip of his tongue.

 

He almost didn’t get a chance to give the order. The creature that suddenly appeared in the darkness, lightning-fast and hungry very nearly decapitated him before he got a chance. John reared back just in time, teeth bared as he ducked and rolled, letting the demon fly over him and miss him by a hair’s breadth. He found his back braced against the inner part of the wall, his bow already notched and aiming for the shadow that was already circling back for another strike. His shoulder twinged with pain.

 

There were shouts and screams - more demons coming in and appearing. The first wave were always the destructive type, the ones that fed off violence and anger and fear. The demon that was charging towards him was definitely a violence type, all nightmarish limbs, eyes just two gaping black holes and wings like twin sails of death stretching outwards behind it. John clenched his jaw and refused to let the instinctive urge to panic fill him, breathing tightly and finishing taking aim.

 

He fired, arrow whizzing through the air straight and deadly, finding its home directly in the centre of the demon’s forehead. With a shriek the creature fell, tumbling from the air and falling past John to the outside of the wall. Gripping his shoulder tightly and forcing himself to push past the phantom ache, John rose back to his feet. What he saw as he looked over the wall was a battle that was already well under way. In the span of a few moments, the wooden defenses that had stood peaceful and statuesque were crawling with smoky shadows, his men engaged in combat with hordes of inhuman monsters. Yet it was unlike the year before, where John had witnessed a bloodbath consisting of his people. No, this time, it was quickly evident that all of his and Greg’s hard work had come to fruition.

 

“ _Yes,_ Mike!” John grinned as he saw his friend, broad in the middle and also in muscle, cleave a demon clean in two as it tried to crawl over the wall. The flash of the man’s blade gave the secret of its make - another deal with the Fae that was turning out to come in handy.

 

Mike adjusted his spectacles, blinking past the spatter of black blood to peer at John through them. His smile was strained, and even over the din of battle John could hear his voice as he called out.

 

“Thought you were finished back there, Captain! Saw the demon as it came on you, couldn’t make it there fast enough though before you took care of it.”

 

“Don’t worry about me. Keep your eye on your own arse, yeah?” John cuffed the side of Mike’s head as he approached, drawing another arrow from his quiver and prepping it smoothly. His bow tightened with the pull of his arm as John took aim once more, this time aiming for a demon that had tackled one of his men about ten feet in front of them. John’s arrow pierced the creature’s wings as it made to take off, a cry tearing from its throat before it landed hard, impaled by one of the stakes of the gate. John grinned ferally, his blood all but singing and turning his cheeks flush. “You know me. Live for this stuff. ‘Sides which, you know the real challenge comes tonight, after the fighting.”

 

Mike’s kind face momentarily darkened, and the two men broke apart as another demon fell out of the sky between them. This time John didn’t need to draw his bow, his friend already had his weapon out, stretched overhead before striking downwards in a clean blow. The demon’s eyes, ghost-green and glowing like a magical furnace dimmed.

 

“Aye.” Mike couldn’t help but agree even as he glanced about warily. His blade seemed to quiver quicksilver in the dark. “We never did find a way to deter the _other_ type.”

 

John felt a tightness in his chest even as his friend spoke, knowing that Mike was right. However, there was little time to offer false hope, as in the next second there was a shout from the top of the tower. John looked up to see Greg’s silhouette, outlined in darkness and fire from the torches. His cry was hoarse, tense.

 

“We’ve got Vultures coming at us!” Death-types, then. Ones that thrived not on violence but murder. John once again reached for his quiver, knowing it was going to be a long and gruelling evening.

 

****

 

With the darkness well and truly settling in, the _real_ Demons would come out to play. Creatures of lust, envy, greed and other dark emotions that played in man’s heart. The first wave of monsters could only cause physical destruction, something John and Greg had both managed to defend the village from this year, but the Demons that came in the dark fed off of mental anguish.

 

There wasn’t much one could do to defend themselves from these monsters, as their powers made them smoke-like, able to walk through even the thickest of walls in order to feed off of humanity. They didn’t kill, not like the first wave, but they left behind scarring that lingered for far longer. Sure, the Fae offered wards, small tokens of charms that would discourage them, but as John leant against his post he very much doubted that the Ash sprig in his breast pocket was going to defend him much.

 

He kept his bow at the ready, even as the night lagged and he was urged once or twice to take a shift off by his mates. Something about the moon kept John on edge, how its pale moonlight painted everything white as it appeared from behind parted clouds, bleaching everything to bones. It made every slow blink of his eyelids feel surreal, like the air was tinged with a magic far beyond his understanding.

 

Without realising it, John’s eyes closed only to refuse to reopen. The soldier’s posture had been slouching already, but it became further slackened, his knees giving way. John slid down the post, a snore already leaving his lips even as he curled much like a child into himself.

 

He dreamed of smoke, and he dreamed of the night he was wounded, the phantom ache singing in his limbs and chasing him down into the abyss.

 

****

 

Sherlock’s wings blotted out the moon, the pale rays splashing down his back and turning raven hair blue. He was unnaturally soundless, a gift of his own magic as he drifted towards the human settlement near his territory, sharp eyes making out the shadows of the men keeping watch.

None saw him; he was invisible, a wisp of fog in the air that would make the air cooler and human breaths clouded. It would be the only indication of his presence, of the presence of any of the beings flocking towards the wooden gate, wraith-like and hungry.

 

All Sherlock felt were the beginnings of boredom and annoyance trickling in his veins. The figures below were like sheep, awaiting an unknown fate in the dark with wide eyes and panicked expressions. Dull, all of them. A part of Sherlock’s colder side wondered if they didn’t deserve these fall evenings, the huntings and the slaughter. After all, in a way his kind were the first to contract with humanity, even before the Fae and the elves and centaurs. Once a year they fed, and then they left humans alone for 364 days, gorging themselves on leftovers to tide over the leaner months. It was a simple trade, but one that the humans seemed to have forgotten. Sherlock could already see that this year, the village had been more properly fortified. His eyes narrowed, feeling the prickle of magic in the air that made the back of his neck tingle with warning. He called out to Molly, warning his Darklings.

 

**_Be cautious. The Fae have given the humans wards. Assume all of your targets have something on them to use for protection._ **

 

A moment later, Molly’s high chirp sounded in Sherlock’s thoughts. He could see her form at a distance, already preparing to land gracefully in front of the small shack in which most of the off-duty guards were resting.

 

_Yes, sir. Should I tell your brother?_

 

Sherlock’s smile was something feral. He allowed a small seeping of satisfaction to run through him as he replied.

 

**_Might as well give our food a sporting chance._ **

 

Then Sherlock dove, dropping like a stone out of the sky and forcing the last lingering feeling of disgust in his imminent future to stay behind, somewhere in the air. Reaching into himself, he drew out his own hunger, his nostrils flaring and his eyes slitting. He braced himself for landing, inhuman legs absorbing the hard shock of his feet touching down onto the platform of the gate. His tail, a long and barbed thing, went wide behind him and provided balance. His long fingers were a white contrast against the darkness of the wood beneath him. Sherlock straightened slowly, cat-like and noiseless as his head craned about, seeking out a suitable target.

 

His eyes flitted about the shadows of the guards, unaware of his presence but chilled and still afraid: a sixth sense picking up subconsciously that something was amiss. It was late, several of the men were already on the verge of sleep, and it made them jump at every shadow and murmur in distress at every noise. For his task, the Incubus would need one in a secluded spot, a place that he could have his way uninterrupted. Sherlock preferred males, so the selection of guards protecting the wall didn’t seem as unappealing as they could be. Still, he found none suitable on this end of the wall, and he left them for the Nightmare-type of his kin in some frustration.

 

In the end it was in fact, one of the Nightmare Demons that alerted Sherlock to a prime target. Tucked into the shelter of a secret post within the Gate itself, a man’s soft cries made the Demon’s ears prick, his body moving as if in its own accord. The Demon he saw as he rounded the corner made the corner of his mouth tic upwards, recognising the silhouette as well as the back of his own hand.

 

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to play with your food?” Sherlock rumbled with feigned casualty, leaning against the gate in observation.

 

Crimson eyes glittered as they looked upward; Moriarty’s power glowed from within even as he lifted his head from where it had been tucked against the human’s neck. The man - a soldier with sandy-silver hair - let out an unintelligible sob in his sleep, unconsciously trying to twist away from the punishing grip James had of his hair. Sherlock took into account the man’s face, eyes closed but expressive in his agony, obviously in the throes of a night terror. Beside him on the ground, a sprig of an ash tree lay snapped in half. Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the sight of it. The Fae knew much about Demons, but sometimes their information was quite simply out of date. No Demon had feared ash since almost before mankind’s walk on Earth, not since the Faeries had lost much of their magical abilities due to human’s meddling with nature and the development of iron.

 

“ _Sherlock,_ dear. Fancy seeing you here. Half expected you to weasel out of it.” Moriarty’s voice was a silky thing, laced with false pleasantry. But even as he spoke, his body shifted imperceptibly, guarding his food and blocking the human from Sherlock’s direct line of sight.

 

“Even I have to eat, James.” Sherlock replied neutrally, tilting his curled head in an almost reptilian way. From behind Moriarty, the Demon thought he saw the human twitch, likely responding to some unseen horror within his mind.

 

Moriarty’s smile was all teeth as he tilted his head in kind, shrugging his slim shoulders in response to Sherlock’s disapproval.  “Can you really blame me for playing? This one has _so_ many delicious little secrets, even if his general physique is rather dull. Part of me wants to drain him dry - turn him mad. Wouldn’t that be delightful? A man fleeing a war in his own mind by joining another battle, only to have it replay every time he closes his eyes for the rest of his _life._ ” His pale hand tightened in the human’s hair as if punctuating his point, and Sherlock heard a rasping intake of breath.

 

Moriarty didn’t seem to notice that the soldier in his grip had managed to wake up, and that his expression was quickly turning murderous, melting through the disorientation. Instead the Demon carried on, humming to himself and toying with Sherlock.

 

“I should really get a live-in one. A pet to play with. Some of us get them, you know. I’m surprised by now you haven’t, what with how it’d make it easier for you not to show up to these big feasts n’ all.”

 

“I don’t generally take a proclivity to humans or even other Demons at the best of times; why on Earth would I want one with me _constantly?_ ”

 

Sherlock answered readily enough, but his eyes were not on Moriarty’s face. Instead, his gaze was locked on the human still slumped on the ground, feigning unconsciousness but with no clear reason as to _why._ A prickle of interest lit up Sherlock’s spine despite himself, and a part of him wanted to know just how this human planned on trying to escape his predicament. For that much was very clear: the glittering hatred in those blue eyes and the set of the man’s teeth indicated he had no intentions of lying still and helpless like a ragdoll.

 

Without much thought, the Incubus found himself distracting James with ease. “Surely something as inane as a human isn’t capturing your interest.”

 

Moriarty laughed at the accusation, eyes widening in disbelief. Without him using his abilities, the pupils were cool brown, nearly black and pupiless. They were unsettling to most in the way they never settled, flickering back and forth mindless and mad.

 

“Puh- _lease._ I’m more interested in his breaking point.” Those eyes darkened, and a purr rumbled in the Demon’s throat. “Also the effects of two Demons on one human. What do you say, Sherlock? I can see you’re hungry.”

 

It was true, Sherlock realised with some surprise. His incisors had sunk into his lower lip, saliva pooling in his mouth against his will. The scene before him was brighter, somehow, his vision sharpened. If the Demon looked, he was sure his horns had appeared amidst his curls, curving up and around his ears like a ram’s. There was a singing in his blood, the kind that made him have to physically stop himself from hovering on the balls of his feet, pouncing like a cat.

 

The soldier’s hand had begun to creep towards the ash branch, inch by painful inch. Dirty hands scraped about the dirt, curling slowly about the branch’s circumference. Sherlock kept his eyes pointedly away from the action, staring James in the eye.

 

“Your offer is kind, but truly, I don’t share well.”

 

Moriarty’s grin only widened, those eyes blazing red anew. He shrugged slowly, his free hand smoothing down the length of his cloak - deepest black.  “Suit yourself,” he murmured, turning at last back to his meal.

 

It was then that John’s grip on the ash branch tightened, and the soldier raised the sharpened end up with a cry, lodging it fully up through the spaces in Moriarty ribs and puncturing his lungs.  There was a moment of silence, and then a hissing sound of escaped breath from between James’ clenched teeth. It was followed by a chuckle, one that Sherlock saw barely made the soldier flinch. It rang out even as Moriarty straightened from how he had instinctively curled over against the attack, those red eyes blazing like a furnace as he loomed over the solder. His voice was a snarl of distaste.

 

“ _Cheeky._ Too bad for you, the Fae are wrong about what can harm a _Demon.”_

 

The human’s jaw lifted, clenched tight in preparation of retaliation. Moriarty’s hand lifted with inhuman speed to strike, a promise on his lips that had Sherlock for no real reason already moving, driving forward to intercede. “Too bad I now owe you a good beating, fifty years of madness should about make up for the slight _irritation_ you have caused me. Wouldn’t you say, Sher-”

 

Jim never got to finish his question, for quite suddenly where his chest had a hand stuck out of it, red and bleeding, sharply clawed. It gripped a heart, still beating but black as coal, stringy and bloody in its grip.

 

****

 

John looked on with wide eyes, having heard the sickening crunch, hardly daring to breathe or believe it when the Demon with dark curls hummed quietly in contemplation. One moment, he had been expecting his death, caught between a Nightmare-Demon and an Incubus and fearing the worst. The next, he found himself on the end of a strange sort of conflict between his enemies, blood splattered on his clothes but none of it his own. Frozen in shock, he could only watch in horror as his first attacker turned, looking to the Incubus with a glint of menace in his expression.

 

“You’re going to regret doing that, Sherlock my dear,” he enunciated carefully, the sound little more than a hiss of pain. In response, “Sherlock” seemed to only smirk, his pale hand tightening on the thrumming organ in his grip. Though John couldn’t see the monster’s full expression, hidden as he was behind the other Demon, he could see the creature’s wings. Blood red graduating to deepest black, they were large enough to block out even the moonlight. Ice-blue eyes glinted, cold and monstrous.

 

“Somehow; Jim, I don’t think I will tonight. I _did_ warn you. I don’t share my food.”

 

The hand lodged in Jim’s chest tightened then, and the Demon shuddered, letting loose a feral cry.

 

John winced against the sound, curling into himself even as he frantically looked for his bow, tossed carelessly a few feet away. Blocking him from it was Jim’s right half, which was rapidly becoming stained red-black. John still couldn’t quite look at the beating organ, and he struggled to breathe as panic truly began to cloud his mind. Oh, _God._ He was going to die.

 

As if reading his thoughts, Moriarty’s blood red eyes pinned him suddenly. The creature’s features, good looking if a bit common before were now twisted beyond recognition. There was nothing but loathing in those irises, and John looked at them directly even as he felt his throat bob with uncertainty, his hands damp with sweat. Jim’s final words were spat at John, laced with poisonous rage.

 

“You were _my_ kill. remember that. _Mine._ ”

 

There was a horrible twisting sound: the wet noise of a heart being squeezed until it punctured. With it, John watched in some awe as the Demon before him actually _died,_ dissolving into dust like powdered chalk.

 

Sherlock redrew his hand, cracking the joints experimentally. There was a small smile curled on the Demon’s face, though it was not by any means kind. His voice was quiet, John found. For a monster that was. Low and sonorous, it pressed John into place, even as he was already moving, one hand reaching for his bow with a desperation that made him tremble.

 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

 

It was at an impossible speed that the Incubus moved, and John soon found himself physically pinned to the cold stone, the shadow of the Demon above him. An iron grip held John’s hands over his head, his shoulder screaming in protest and his heart pounding as he found himself a hair’s breadth from pale eyes and teeth so sharp looking they could be an edged blade.

 

Sherlock’s voice rumbled deeply, vibrating against John’s chest in a way that shook him down to his toes. John struggled valiantly despite the fact that he knew that there was no escape, his breath coming as harsh pants even as the Demon’s nose and mouth lowered, inhaling in the crook of his neck in such a way that made the soldier still, hyper-aware of how one wrong move could have him dead.

 

“I am _very_ hungry, and if you squirm too much, I might just _bite._ ” The warning was given softly, but the creature’s grip was punishing. John stilled even as every ounce of him screamed to fight, panting openly with the force of his fear even as the Demon drew back, analysing his facial expressions with a neutral sort of gaze.

 

“You might as well just kill me. I won’t listen to anything you want.” John’s voice came out harsh in the darkness, tight and stressed. His strength, no more powerful than a kitten to Sherlock made the Demon feel as if he were holding something infinitely fragile beneath him.

 

“You say that as if you have much choice,” Sherlock mused, flexing his grip about the man’s wrists as if to make his point. Dark brows furrowed in thought, as if fascinated by John’s struggles. “You’re quite a feisty little thing, given your overall height and situation.” One free hand, long and spidery came up to trace along John’s jaw, hovering just above his carotid. “Where do you get your motivation from, I wonder?”

 

John’s breath hissed out from between his teeth, his gaze dark. They were twin chips of cobalt, like a dark sapphire, uncut. Part of Sherlock wondered what they might look like in the daytime, or perhaps illuminated by moonlight.

 

“The likes of you wouldn’t understand. You come to our village, attack our men, women and children and disappear leaving us shattered. How do you think that feels, left to recover only to be destroyed once more?”

 

Sherlock snorted quietly. “You know less than you think, human. You know nothing of my kind; your information is a millenia out of date. There was once a time we could move freely between our worlds, but then _your_ kind went and got involved with Fae, and the next thing we knew a contract had been forged. Your numbers wouldn’t deplete so if you hadn’t gotten meddlesome. Now we starve for most of the year, only to gorge ourselves come this night.” The Demon wasn’t sure why he was explaining secrets of his kind’s history, but the timbre of his voice seemed to calm the small human beneath him, even if it was subconsciously.

 

“You’re a liar,” John murmured, though he wasn’t entirely certain how much he believed that. There was an aura of blunt honesty about Sherlock - for a Demon at least. John couldn’t see much past the cloak that was the creature’s wings, but from this close he could see that the Incubus was unnaturally handsome like most of his kind. The difference however was in the _way_ he was handsome. Where John had grown used to the pale skin, become wary of the unnaturally plump lips and hungry desire that burned in the Demon’s eyes, there was a startling sharpness to the man’s features. Sherlock’s cheeks were sharp enough that John could picture them as edged knife-points, and though his gaze was hungry thus far he had maintained a tenuous control, though his lips parted to reveal carnivorous teeth. John hadn’t realised that slowly the creature’s presence had begun to lower his defenses, but he stiffened in mortification as the hand that had been hovering over his throat sought out a lower path, trailing down his stomach to brush across his his cock.

 

“And _you,_ ” Sherlock replied, his voice faintly amused and rumbling with triumph, “are hard.”

 

John suppressed a gasp as that hand began to stroke him experimentally through the fabric of his trousers, an almost playful touch that had the soldier against his will bucking upwards, seeking more friction. Sherlock had a mischievous look in his eye, and the Incubus bent down suddenly to breathe in John’s ear. The ghosting of his breath made the hair on the back of John’s neck stand on end.

 

“You seem to have stopped struggling. Is it possible that you’re perhaps not as eager to escape as you once were? Shame on you, _John._ In the end you’re little more than any other man in this village-”

 

That woke John up a little, and his struggle renew even as he growled in frustration. “How do you… How do you know my name?”

 

Sharp teeth grazed John’s collarbone, and he whined despite himself.  His head felt fuzzy - a mix of adrenaline and lust shooting through him in surprisingly equal waves. He was terrified, but a part of him was also feeling very much alive in a way he never seemed to replicate when he wasn’t in immediate danger. Sherlock’s lips pressed to the skin of his neck, sucking in a way that made the soldier’s toes curl and his heart drum in a frenzy. In the darkness of the hidden post, no one would come looking for John for a good hour at least. Not while they themselves were being attacked by Demons.

 

“I deduced it from you, it’s written on your pendant. Here, about your neck.” Sherlock nodded towards John’s collarbone, where his pendant did indeed sit against the hollow of his throat. The soldier’s eyes widened a bit in surprise, and encouraged by the action Sherlock continued, somewhat breathless with anticipation to see just how this human would react to his observations.  “I also deduce that you’re the captain and one of the minds behind all of the defenses my kind have faced this year, judging by your gait and quick thinking with Jim. You’ve also seen battle before, given the scar on your shoulder. My guess is that the first time your village was threatened, you prepared yourself for war. Came back with a dead father and an injury. That certainly explains the personal nature of your prejudice. Then there’s the fact that you limp. You weren’t injured there, but your leg will still twinge. Most think it’s from stress, but as if right now you’re expressing no pain. In fact-” Sherlock’s hips ground down suddenly and John grunted, his face alighting with shame and arousal in equal part. It made his ears tinge pink, a sight that the Incubus found surprisingly lovely. “-It seems to me you’re rather enjoying this whole affair, as you’ve been perfectly still for the duration of my speech.”

 

 _“Amazing.”_   John found himself muttering incredulously, the compliment bursting from his lips before he could stop it. His head, once lifted to see Sherlock clearly now relaxed back towards the floor, his shaking head negating the physical sensation of arousal even as a small part of his stomach lurched towards it. He almost whined when the Incubus stopped the slow, grinding circle of his hips, stilling before admitting with some surprise the source of his confusion.

 

“That’s not what your kind usually say.”

 

“What do we usually say then?” John breathed, feeling as if the air was charged with lightning.

 

The Incubus’ lips were only an inch or so from his own, and looking at them the soldier found a plush softness in the hard lines of the creature’s face. From them, words breathed over John’s own mouth, captured between them and held. Sherlock didn’t answer his question, instead confusion rumbled in his own tone.  “This feels… different.”

 

John, his leg lifting almost instinctively to curl the creature’s hips closer to his own, was past the point of caring. His hands, once trapped above him were released, only to curl themselves into the sleeves of the creature’s strange clothes. The soldier, losing the last of his reservations found himself unable to resist, the pull of the creature’s own allure and his own personal desperation to feel _alive_ singing in his blood. He hovered only a moment, asking Sherlock the one inquiry that would decide whether or not the soldier would lean forward, or try to escape one last time. “Different how?”

 

Sherlock, pale eyes fairly glowing, breathed in reply.  “It feels… _not boring._ ”

 

It was then that John’s lips found his own, and the Incubus let his instincts take over, the last of his human-like reservations stripping away as his wings fluttered wide and his strength found him, pressing John closer to the ground even as his hands swiftly worked at divesting the man of his clothes.

 

John for his part had never been taken so utterly and wholly. An Incubus’ abilities meant that the object of their hunt tended to be lost in a haze of magic, complicated spells that created a glamour about the creature, relaxing will and fear into compliance. Yet he didn’t feel as if all of his desire stemmed just from Sherlock’s physical appearance, but perhaps merely enhanced by its presence. It was a twisting combination of sensations, the kind that left the man breathless and hungry for more. His hands found cream-white planes of skin as he plucked at the creature’s violet tunic, hiding muscle that was inhumanly strong and warm, almost to the point of burning. Plush lips captured his mouth even as his trousers were slid down his legs, a wet tongue demanding entry that the soldier couldn’t deny. His own lips parted, and he keened softly as a warm hand found his cock, the touch making his thighs shudder and spread wider in open invitation.

 

Sherlock watched John’s eyes grow hazy with pleasure, unable to stopper his own arousal when presented with the darkening flush that was staining the human’s cheeks, down his throat. The hunger for more stirred in the Incubus in a way it hadn’t before, sending heat through his spine. The temptation to taste was too much to ignore, and Sherlock leaned forward, pressing a kiss to John’s neck that turned into a lick, sampling the sweat that was beginning to collect in the hollow of the man’s throat. It tasted sharp and acrid, and yet somehow Sherlock wanted nothing more than to suck marks into John’s skin, to claim him as his own. He set about to doing so, pausing when John’s hands began to move, his moans deepening as he found evidence of the Incubus’ own arousal.

 

In tandem, they both began to stroke, panting into each other’s necks and feeling as though they were teetering on the edge of a live wire. Sherlock could feel saliva pooling in his mouth as his pleasure built, and couldn’t help the way he rocked into John’s hand, gasping each time the soldier’s thumb swiped across the head of his cock. He was as much ensnared as John, and the sensation was dizzyingly heady. The Incubus spared the barest thought for if this was how his brethren felt, then he very suddenly _understood_ their promiscuity. That was all he had time to reflect upon, because he found John’s breath was becoming more desperate, his cries higher in pitch. With it, the temptation to bite, to sate his hunger became overwhelming, and Sherlock’s irises glowed a haunting blue-white, his mind whiting out to nothing but the need to take what was his.

 

As if sensing the creature’s desire, John bared his throat, submitting wordlessly even as his hips stuttered, his own release hitting him like a solid punch in the gut. In that moment Sherlock’s lips parted, pressed against the soldier’s neck. He bit down, teeth so sharp that John scarcely felt a thing until the Incubus began to drink. Then, _oh_ then, John’s own pleasure skyrocketed, and he opened his mouth to scream, stopped only by the pale hand suddenly pressed over his lips, muffling the sound of his cries.

 

Sherlock drank deeply, the man’s blood and lust sending a seemingly endless feedback loop of pleasure through his system. It filled him like an ocean, capsizing all logic and reason. There was only the body beneath him and the feeling of his full strength returning, a full year of fasting leaving him to remember what it felt like to feel _full_ and complete. It was a high that in the moment he never wanted to leave, to always ride its most thrilling point and never fall back down to the end of its free-fall.

 

Only the knowledge that John’s grip on his arm was growing weaker finally forced Sherlock to wrench away from that proffered neck, blood coating his teeth as he breathed in deep lungfuls of air, forcing his more animalistic side down into a space where he might control it. He tasted iron and savagery on his tongue, and it slid down his throat in a few last gulps as he shuddered physically. For a moment he could do nothing but strain against the animal within him, playing a game of tug-o-war in which he struggled to find reason to restrain himself. He found it in the pair of fluttering eyes beneath him when he at last could focus, as well as in John’s faint smile.

 

“Not going to die, then…” the soldier murmured woozily.  “That’s… good-”

 

Sherlock didn’t have even a moment to reassure the man that he would live to see another day, although the notion that John had expected to die and had been willing to go with it filled him with a mixture of curious exasperation and a tentative fondness that he refused to dwell upon. In that moment, the Demon had barely a moment to move as his sensitive ears caught the whizz of an arrow, ducking as it flew past where he had crouched only a moment before only to lodge itself into the opposite wooden wall. Curled defensively, the Demon didn’t bother with trousers or his tunic, teeth bared menacingly and black cloak flared at the man that stood silhouetted in the exit. Oak-brown hair glinted in the moonlight, and Michael Stamford resisted the urge to shake like a leaf, keeping his bow as level as he could. His voice shook with terror.

 

“G-get away from the Captain, _Monster._ I won’t miss again, I...I swear it!”

 

Sherlock briefly considered lunging for John anyway, a pull in his gut demanding - no, shrieking - that his newfound desire not be taken from him. Yet with the shaking of the man’s hands there was a chance that any stray arrow might hit John himself, and there was no place the Incubus could hope to make an escape with another body, the only exit blocked. Sherlock took a moment to assess the pros and cons, and to his reluctance found himself well and truly stuck. A pink tongue darted across his lips, and it was with regret heavy in his chest at a lost opportunity that he whispered a spell of invisibility upon himself.

 

Mike shot, hitting only empty air where the Demon had once stood. He had barely time to recover before an invisible force shoved him down, Sherlock taking off towards the air.  Adjusting his spectacles, Mike muttered a low oath before his mind turned to his captain and friend, and he dove for John’s unconscious and naked form.

 

****

 

It was nearly seven moons before Mycroft went to find Sherlock.  The barriers between the human world and their own had once again fully closed, sealing off the two worlds as separate, conjoined no longer. The steady tap of the Incubus’ parasol was like a stone thrown into a lake, a ripple in Sherlock’s thoughts even as he lay prone and still, splayed out as he was on the cold stone floor of the Bone Room. None of his creations dared bother him, and they rattled in greeting towards the elder Holmes even as they nervously whispered amongst themselves. Their master was not the same. Something was wrong with their sire. They chattered with one another, creating a cacophony much like the chirping of birds. It was silenced only by the pointed clearing of Mycroft’s throat, as Sherlock opened his eyes in acknowledgement of his presence a distant age after his arrival.

 

The elder Holmes’ voice was deceptively mild as he spoke, but his presence alone attested to Sherlock’s utter malaise. Normally, Mycroft did not pester his brother, so long as he was upholding his duties. However, the Incubus had not visited his Darklings in days, and the rooms of his realms were growing neglected. Even the bone creatures, normally well put together and friendly, seemed anxious and crumbling. It was as if Sherlock’s internal clock had stopped, and the Demon lay in the eye of a hurricane, numb and indifferent to his responsibilities.

 

“Molly has told me you haven’t left this room in nearly a fortnight.” Sherlock didn’t reply directly, but the slow blink of his agreement seemed as good a reason as any to carry on. “I was informed that on the night of the Hunt as it were you came to blows with a certain Demon… a James Moriarty. Whispers of course, but like a spider’s web, word travels rather _quickly_ … down here…”

 

“He has not harmed me, if that is your question.” Sherlock denied flatly, his voice deadpan and neutral. Still he lay like a marionette with its strings cut, the utter picture of boredom and contempt. “I have merely found my usual experiments and research… dull. As of late.” One spidery hand shooed at Mycroft, and the motion seemed a gargantuan effort on Sherlock’s part. “Go away, Mycroft. Find someone else to mother hen over.”

 

The older Demon sighed, fingers tightening upon the handle of his parasol. His voice carried a note of impatience. “Are you aware that as a higher Demon I can sense when a lower Demon’s condition has changed? That I know that you engaged in intercourse with a human and bit into their flesh, physically tasted their blood?”

 

Sherlock slowly sat up, finally giving his brother the attention he deserved. From the new position Mycroft could see just how haggard his brother appeared, tired despite his very recent feeding. There were dark circles under Sherlock’s eyes, and a minute trembling in his limbs: an addict suffering through withdrawal. His voice was hoarse, spitting out verbal abuse even as he demanded a straight answer.

 

“Oh _out_ with it you fat fool! All of this building up to what you want to say to me and you can’t even tell that my head is _killing me_ from listening to your insufferable drabble!”

 

“It’s not killing you because I’m speaking.” Mycroft was smirking, but it wasn’t a happy expression. He seemed rather worried in fact, though it was masked with a layer of irritation. “You don’t even know what you’ve done I see. Deleted it, all those years ago. You likely never thought it would happen to you and so regarded it as useless information. Brother mine, you’ve **_Bonded_** yourself to a mortal and you do not even see that you are dying because of it!”

 

For a moment, Sherlock found himself gaping, looking at his brother as if he had lost his mind. However the Incubus quickly found his words, and they came with a blazing glare, his wings flaring as he stood to his full height and crowded towards his brother. Sherlock’s long fingers were tipped with claws as he grabbed at his brother’s arms, shoving him violently even as he shouted.

 

“What are you _talking_ about?! **_Bonded,_** me?! You’ve said it yourself, sentiment is a weakness found in the losing side, why in all of _Hell_ would I **_Bond_** with a human being?!”

 

 _“Use your brain,”_ Mycroft hissed in response, his own eyes glowing with uncharacteristic fury.  “You’re irritable, more so than usual. Can’t think any more, can you? Likely feel sick, drained and lethargic. You’re barely standing as it is! Sherlock, _look what you’ve done!”_

 

The dark-curled Incubus snarled then, fangs showing. His blue eyes glowed like fire. “It’s _impossible._ I’ve never… I never feel _anything_ for a human, not even John.”

 

“Yet you’ve remembered his name,” Mycroft murmured, watching as his brother flinched as though he’d been struck.

 

Sherlock scowled.  **_Bonding._**   The situation was impossible. His hands came up to grip his curls, tugging restlessly. The Demon’s wings twitched behind him, tail lashing irritably. Like a whip it cut through the air, seeming to only feed Sherlock’s energy. Mycroft looked on as Sherlock left attacking him to pace instead, his brain already calculating the results of his actions. With his jerky movements, the bone creatures came out of hiding.  They restlessly wound themselves about their master’s legs, begging for attention. Sherlock ignored them in favour of snapping questions, his hands folded behind his back, moving restlessly.

 

“What are the repercussions?”

 

With an unimpressed arch of his brow, Mycroft adjusted his collar and responded blandly.  “Demonic servitude. The human controls the dynamic of the relationship, as it was their lifeblood given.”

 

Sherlock bared his teeth hatefully. “Then there must be a way to break it.”

 

“There is. You can kill the human. Or yourself.” Mycroft gave both options, but Sherlock looked equally hesitant and disdainful of both. The second for obvious reasons, the first with more of a vulnerable reluctance. The younger Incubus ceased his pacing then, shoulders squaring quietly. Those blue eyes seemed to reflect on his options, before Sherlock took a deep, seemingly endless breath. His voice was quiet.

 

“How do I honour the **_Bond_** then?”

 

Mycroft wasn’t quite sure he was hearing correctly. Incredulous, he asked for clarification.

“Sherlock you can’t be serious-”

 

_“How do I honour the **Bond,** Mycroft?” _

 

The elder Holmes sucked in a breath through his teeth. For a moment, he considered refusing to tell his brother. Grey eyes flicked to manicured nails, even as the elder Holmes carefully conceded that despite his reservations if Sherlock wanted to know, he would likely find out on his own. His voice felt heavy with defeat.

 

“You must spend the remainder of the human’s life on Earth, and you are bound as their protector and progenitor. At the end of the contract, the Human becomes a slave themselves. The Demon they’ve contracted drags their soul to Hell for all eternity, where they serve out the rest of time bound to the Demon as the Demon was for the duration of their life.”

 

There was a beat of silence, drawn out between the two brothers like a violin string stretched taut. Sherlock looked at Mycroft steadily as if searching for any sign of deceit, and his shoulders only slumped forwards upon finding none. The Incubus’ voice was quiet, filled with uncharacteristic vulnerability.

 

“It’d be a mercy then, to kill John.”

 

Mycroft was careful to reply. He did not mention to Sherlock how in that moment, there was a sliver of humanity in those blue eyes, something that had been lost for many a millenia.

 

“Some might say that. The question; brother mine, is would your human think the same way?”

 

****

 

John found the days were blending together somewhat greyly.  It wasn’t anyone’s fault.  It was in the way the clouds never seemed to lift for the first three weeks after the attack from the Demons, in how his people flinched away from the dark and screamed themselves awake with night terrors. It was in the way that children left candles burning in the night, and in the way that people looked at John with respect - how they blessed his presence because he made sure that only five men had been slaughtered that night.

 

Five good men.

 

It was funny, how those thanks given to him left him feeling ashy and small. John spent the first three nights after the battle in a hospital bed, bouncing back and forth between nightmares and dreams that left him aching, blood pooling to his groin and leaving him crying out a name that he should never had known. The priest had come to see him, to talk to John about his feelings after the “attack”. The captain hadn’t told kind-faced Father Henry that in his mind, it wasn’t so cut and dry. Still he confessed his sins, and was told that it wasn’t his fault. That he had been “overcome” by the creature’s dark magic, that what had happened had been a cruelty.

 

John didn’t tell anyone, not even Greg, that the wound from Sherlock’s bite twinged sometimes.  That when he touched it, a fizzle of pleasure shot down his spine. In the days to come, he would trace it and watch as his skin knitted over the wound with inhuman speed, the mark turning silvery but never quite fading. Eventually, he was sent back home, back to an empty house, and what he was beginning to recognise as an empty life.

 

It had never bothered him before. John wondered to himself as he tucked into bed at night just how long he had lied to his own mind, pretending that the creak of the house wasn’t lonely, or that his bed wasn’t cold as ice. Meals for one were tasteless, and he lost his appetite for them. He felt sick, truly. It was as if he had been given a flu, except physically he seemed healthy enough. His very skin felt wrong, his bones humming for a presence that wasn’t there, that would likely never return.

 

It was nearly two weeks later that he first considered the fact that he was no longer truly living. It was two nights after that John considered that the lake that cut through the village would be just deep enough to drown himself in, if he weighted his legs enough. The night he slept on that possibility, John was woken by a voice deeper than night itself. It spoke in his ear, curling smoke as a long hand rested itself on his hip. Possessive. Right.

 

_“John Watson.”_

 

John, half believing it to be a dream, merely answered with a sleep-filled sigh.

 

“You came back, then.”

 

Plush lips pressed to the soldier’s temple, fleeting but soft. Sherlock’s voice was gentle, but the hands that turned John over, pressed him closer were demanding. They rumpled the covers, twisting them about their bodies so that they did little to deter the chill. It didn’t matter though, not when the Demon’s skin was burning hot, and John’s own was slowly heating to it. John opened his eyes to see twin wings, spreading to shield the man from even the moonlight itself, and the Incubus’ blue eyes. They shone, slitted and inhuman in the dark. Monstrous. John found that he had never been so glad to see such a sight.

 

“Know this. Until the end of time, I will _always_ come back.” Sherlock’s breath, sweet against John’s ear was deceptively innocent, given the fact that the Demon’s hands were already trailing down John’s bare chest, fingers running through the blonde trail that disappeared into the soldier’s pants.

 

“Is that a promise, then?” John panted, clutching at milky shoulders for purchase.

 

Sherlock paused in his exploration, before his lips found a resting place against the mark he had left John with before. Sherlock’s voice was a whisper, a vow that the Demon would keep to the end of his days. He licked a stripe along the mark, tasting ownership. Connection.

 

“No,” he murmured, before plunging his hands down into John’s pants. He savoured the soldier’s cries, feeling arousal of his own course through him. _“It’s a contract.”_

 

 

 


End file.
